


Instincts

by TotalBellarkeTrash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29901576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotalBellarkeTrash/pseuds/TotalBellarkeTrash
Summary: Bellamy Blake had trouble sleeping from the moment the dropship landed on Earth. It was nothing new, and neither were his routine trips to Clarke’s chamber in the middle of the night. He never entered, just pressed himself against the door, longing to be close to her. Tonight was different, though. Tonight, Clarke wasn’t alone.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake & Clarke Griffin, Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62





	Instincts

It was 1:00am, and Bellamy Blake couldn’t sleep. He’d tried- for hours, in fact. Tonight was one of his few nights off of guard duty, and for the life of him, he just couldn’t settle his mind enough to slip into unconsciousness. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence by any means, ever since he put a bullet in the chancellor- he’d spend many nights plagued with insomnia, battling his own mind, trying to convince himself that he was deserving of sleep, despite all of the horrible, terrible things he’d done. They flashed through his head in movie style, enticing a self-loathing so great, Bellamy felt he’d never be redeemable, worthy of living. He knew several others that had died, good people, people that deserved to breathe this air, air that he didn’t deserve. He couldn’t make sense of it, the twisted ways of the world. He couldn’t make sense of all of the pain and suffering of the innocent, while monsters like himself were free to live on.

Frustrated, Bellamy flipped the blankets off of him and stood up, intent on walking outside into the cool, crisp air to clear his mind. He dug the pistol, already cocked and ready for firing, out of his side drawer and tucked it deep into the waistband of his jeans, as he always did. He knew from his training on the ark that it wasn’t the technically “safe” way to do things by any means, but on Earth, things were different. Seconds matter, and sometimes you didn’t have time to load one into the chamber. He opted not to put a shirt on, instead strolling out the hallway into the night air, allowing it to prick his bare chest, cool his heart and his mind, the crisp air soothing him. Bellamy ran a hand through his black, partially curly hair, looking up at the sky. He’d spent countless nights doing just this, but one of his favorites was just a few days prior. Octavia had been fast asleep beside a glowing fire, her hands folded under her into a makeshift pillow. He and Clarke sat on opposite sides of each other, catching glimpses in between the flames. He felt a warmness growing in his stomach, and he felt as if maybe he was the one on fire for a moment. Bellamy knew, however, that wasn’t the case. He knew the feeling was that of tenderness, as he stared through the flame to the face of the girl he’d do anything for. The mighty _ Wanheda _ . The woman who set his soul on fire, who made him wish he was a better person. Despite these feelings for her, whatever they were, Bellamy tried desperately to keep them pushed deep, deep down inside himself. They were best friends, partners, and he couldn’t risk letting unrequited emotions ruin that, nor put anyone in danger. So when Clarke flashed him a small smile through the blaze, Bellamy did not return it, instead looking away from her face, down to the ground, mentally begging that warm feeling to recede, to go back into hiding. 

Tonight, however, was different. Rather than warmth engulfing his body, it was cold, sharp air. It stung his nerves every time the breeze blew, but in a sadistic, twisted way- it felt good. The grounds were quiet tonight. No one seemed to be out and about as usual. Bellamy scanned the perimeter, the full moon illuminating everything, making it easy to peer out into the yard. After a few moments, Bellamy felt bumps course down his back and arms, a chill emerging from his body. He decided to head back inside, but not before checking on Octavia. He strode down the long hallway, past his room, over to the other side of the cold metal building, where many of the younger girls slept. Bellamy came to Octavia’s door and pushed it open quietly, peering in. His younger sister laid still on the bed, blankets pulled over her body. Her face was freshly washed, cleansed of the black grounder makeup that O had been sporting more often than not, lately. He sighed contently, seeing his little sister safe, sleeping soundly. Quietly, Bellamy let the door click behind him, not wanting to risk waking her. He decided to take the longer route home, circle back through the outer corridor. Bellamy told himself it was simply to get a little more energy out, but that was a lie, as the outer corridor is also where Clarke’s chambers happened to be.

Admittedly, he knew it was slightly creepy, the way he’d wonder to them after checking on Octavia almost every night. Sometimes, Bellamy would simply slow down when passing her door, throwing a glance at it as he strode by. Other times, he would press his back against it, listening to her. Sometimes it was a light snore emerging from her sleeping form, sometimes he would hear her sobbing in her sleep, fighting the same demons in her dreams that he often did. One other time, he’d heard something more, a light moaning. He’d pressed his ear into the door harder, knowing he shouldn’t, feeling guilty, but also being unable to pull himself away from it. For a moment, he thought of her in there, alone, touching herself, and it sent a fire through his body, his jeans growing a little tighter than before. Then, he heard a masculine sounding grunt, and he pushed from the door forcefully, the warmth suddenly replaced with cold, frigid anger and jealousy. Bellamy knew he had no reason to be jealous, no rationale for his response, and truthfully, he was in the wrong here, pressing up against her door, listening in. The next couple days he could barely look at her without that feeling of jealous rage returning. He skipped walking past her door for a few weeks, but old habits die hard, and he’d quickly returned to his shenanigans.

This time, as Bellamy approached her hall, nearing her door, he grimaced. He immediately heard a whimper, signaling to him that it was his least favorite of nights, the nights when Clarke’s nightmares tormented her sleep, playing tricks on her mind, torturing her subconscious. He longed desperately to go into her, wrap his arms around her and tell her everything would be okay. Bellamy stifled this feeling every night, but especially tonight. As he pressed himself up again her door, he sighed slightly with sadness.

“Please, stop,” Clarke begged in her sleep, her voice muffled, but tinged with heartbreak. He wondered what she was dreaming about, what event was replaying in her mind, wondering if they ever dreamed about the same things, or had nightmares of the same things. He was sure they did. 

The next utterance sent his body tense, something about it felt off, unlike Clarke’s usual nightmarish protests. He heard a squeak-maybe a clatter, before Clarke’s voice filled the air again, less muffled than before. 

“Get the fuck off of me,” She hissed. Even through the door, Bellamy sensed it was spoken with venom, through her teeth, the way she spoke when she was furious. Before he had time to churn the words in his head, imagine all the scenarios she was potentially dreaming about, he heard something that sent his mind and body into hyper-drive.

“Shof op, Wanheda!” A male voice whispered harshly behind the door. For a millisecond, Bellamy froze. It didn’t take long before he registered what was happening.  _ Clarke wasn’t alone _ .

Without thinking, Bellamy pushed open the door, withdrawing the pistol from his hip in the same movement. Upon walking in, his eyes absorbed the scene in the room, the scene that would haunt him for months to come. A large man, very muscular, dawning furs, make-up and attire that was reserved for members of Ice Nation, had Clarke pushed over the railings of the makeshift bed. The man’s hand was pressing Clarke’s face firmly down into a pillow, the other trying desperately to free something from the front of his pants. Clarke’s hands were secured with rope, in the typical grounder fashion, the majority of her clothing already pulled from her body. She was using every ounce of her strength to kick back against the man, fight him. Her attempts were unsuccessful, due to the sheer size of the ice nationer pressing down against her. 

It took but a split second for Bellamy to understand what was going on, the door hadn’t even fully snapped shut behind him before he pulled the trigger, thankful the man had sat up, giving him a clear shot, rather than risking hitting Clarke. 

_ Bang. _

The first bullet sunk right into the side of the man’s head, causing him to slump. Bellamy knew he was dead, but couldn’t stop his fingers, as they pulled again.

_ Bang. _

And again.

_ Bang. _

Each time, Bellamy took a step closer to the dead grounder. Before he could even register his actions, he’d unloaded an entire clip into the son of a bitch. He squeezed the trigger one more time, and it responded with an empty click, dry firing. 

Bellamy’s hands were trembling slightly. He knew what he did was reckless, stupid even. To unload an entire clip into a person who was already dead was a waste of resources, but Bellamy didn’t care. He couldn’t care. Previously, anytime he’d taken a life, he was haunted by it. Even in self defense, every time his bullet met the heart of its intended target, a piece of his humanity chipped away. This time, however, it was different. There was no remorse, no guilt. Intense rage pumped through his veins, fury that only slightly subsided when he heard Clarke’s voice.

“Bellamy.” 

It was more of statement, than a question, or confusion, really. The sound of his name, of Clarke’s voice saying his name, made him lower the gun, which he’d held steady aimed at the lifeless body, despite having no more rounds. Bellamy took a deep breath, searching her face. He noticed a bruise on her cheekbone, her lower lip had a small cut, blood peeking out of it. Her neck was red, finger shaped bruises starting to appear where he assumed the man had choked her. Bellamy made a mental note to never, ever place his hands around someone’s neck during sex again. The thought disgusted him now. 

“Are you okay?” He asked Clarke, his voice low, deep with a mixture of emotions. Clarke nodded, biting her lip. She’d been holding back tears up to this point, and the dam finally burst. A quiet sob erupted from her mouth. Bellamy felt his fingers release their grip on the gun, and it clattered to the floor with a crash. He stepped towards Clarke, about to wrap her into him, before he paused, remembering her clothing- or lack thereof. This is so  _ not  _ how he’d imagined seeing her naked for the first time. Any other time, Bellamy would’ve been more intrigued, allowing his eyes to wonder her body, taking in her curves and dips. Now, however, it was the last thing on his mind. He reached behind Clarke, grabbing a thin sheet and wrapping it around her body, covering her as much as possible. He heard doors closing in the hallway, chatter growing. Ignoring the mounting chaos outside, Bellamy pulled Clarke, who was trembling, tears streaming down her face, into his arms. Clarke buried his face in the crook of his neck, letting out a heavy, shaky breath, her body finally relaxing for the first time since she woke up to that bastard tying a rope around her hands. She allowed herself to be encompassed in him, his large, strong arms pressing her body into his comfortingly, his hands stroking her blonde hair. It was such a contrast to the touch she’d felt just moments earlier. 

“Shh, it’s okay, princess,” Bellamy cooed, lightly pressing his lips against Clarke’s temple, gentling rocking her body with his. The nickname would’ve irked Clarke at any other time, but right now, it felt comforting. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.” 

It didn’t take long for someone to push the heavy metal door of Clarke’s bedroom open, seeing as it hadn’t fully sealed itself. There were people swarming outside, hearing the gunshots. Everyone was talking above everyone, trying to locate the source of them. Octavia was the first that entered in, followed by a small crowd of people. She gasped, seeing the dead body on the floor, blood pooling from him. She then looked to her brother, who remained still, holding a trembling Clarke. She quickly spun around, ushering the people who’d followed her in back out into the hallway. Octavia pushed the door shut with a clank, turning the lock.

“What the hell happened here?” She asked, stepping closer to them, peering at the face of the grounder to make sure she didn’t recognize his features. 

“That fucking grounder got in here, he was trying to hurt Clarke,” Bellamy said, his jaw clenching, the anger rising in him again. 

“He was trying to kill me,” Clarke corrected, speaking up for the first time. She raised her head away from Bellamy’s chest, taking a deep breath to steady herself in front of Octavia. They all knew the motives.  _ Wanheda _ . Kill her, take her power. Bellamy felt slightly guilty, but deep down, he was thankful the grounder was an idiot. He was thankful that he tried to take certain liberties with Clarke, instead of just coming in and slitting her throat in her sleep. Had the grounder done that, Bellamy likely would’ve never found her. He would’ve just passed by her door like any other night, thankful that she was sleeping peacefully. 

“Why were you here?” Octavia asked, her question directed at Bellamy, looking between his shirtless torso and Clarke’s body, which she could tell was naked under the sheet. She raised her eyebrow at him suspiciously. She’d long suspected something was going on between Clarke and Bellamy. Their friendship was just a little _ too  _ passionate to be fully platonic. Their glances, the way they embraced one another. Octavia knew, at least, her brother was in love with Clarke, even if the feelings weren’t mutual. Bellamy straightened a little, understanding what she was implying. 

“I was just walking by,” He explained, the memory unfolding in his mind, the scene he entered into ingrained in his brain. “I heard Clarke.” 

Octavia nodded ever so slightly, still not convinced, but deciding against pressing the issue any farther. She nudged the man’s leg with her foot, making sure he was dead. She quickly realized this was absolutely pointless, as she looked at his body, riddled with bullet holes. It was difficult, if not impossible, to determine where one started and another one ended. Bellamy made him look like a paper target after a round of practice. 

“What did you do, fire a whole clip into him? I’m pretty sure any of these were kill shots, Bellamy.” Octavia torted, looking at her brother with a mixture of shock, disgust, and a little bit of pride. Bellamy shrugged in response, running a hand through his hair. 

“I guess I overreacted. Got a little trigger happy.”

“I’ll say,” Octavia said, laughing slightly. She didn’t think it was funny, exactly, more ironic. The understatement of the year. She imagined it, her poised, confident, controlled brother entering into the room of the woman he loved only to find a grounder there with ill intentions. She imagined Bellamy’s anger, the adrenaline and emotion making him lose control. It was so unlike him, in so many ways, but when it came to Clarke, protecting her- Bellamy was anything but rational. Octavia knew that, as did everyone else. She sighed. “So what do we do with him now?” 

The three of them looked around at each other in silence, no one quite sure of the next steps. If there was one thing Bellamy was sure of, however, it was that Clarke was in no position to have to deal with this right now. Octavia noticed, reading his mind. 

“Take Clarke somewhere safe,” Octavia instructed, sighing. Although she knew it wasn’t her fault, she was growing tired of cleaning up Clarke’s messes. “I’ll get this taken care of.”

Bellamy nodded and shot Octavia a small smile, his eyes conveying gratitude at his sister. Although they had their differences, they were always there for one another, no matter what. Clarke rose to her feet first, and Bellamy followed her lead as Octavia disappeared. He could hear her barking orders to several people in the hallway before the door had even swung shut. She could be a leader in her own right, when necessary. 

“Get dressed, we’ll go back to my room,” Bellamy said softly, turning away from Clarke, giving her some privacy. He could hear the rustling behind him, a drawer opening, the bed squeaking under her weight. Clarke was silent, not uttering a word the entire time, which was unlike her. It made his stomach flip, turn over into itself. He worried about her, the mental ramifications of the incident more so than the physical. Finally, Clarke broke her silence. 

“Okay, ready,” Clarke whispered, taking a place beside him, staring at the door. Flashbacks entered her mind, the image of Bellamy at that door, the sound of gunshots echoing through the chambers. She was eternally grateful for him, his immaculate timing, but something about the incident made her uneasy. The look on Bellamy’s face, the way he fired the pistol over and over with reckless abandon. Bellamy had always been careful and rational, rarely letting his emotions factor into his decision, his actions always controlled and precise. Earlier, they were not. Bellamy had a look on his face that was unlike any she’d seen before. He’d gone primal, as if reaching into some unknown part of himself, finding a wild, reckless man. Bellamy didn’t just shoot for protection as he had so many times before. No, this time he shot with vengeance. Raging, blood-thirsty vengeance. Admittedly, it scared her a little. Not that she was scared of Bellamy, of him turning on her, no- that was the last thing on her mind. What scared her about his state was the way he did nothing, focused on nothing but exterminating the threat to her. He didn’t search the room for another grounder, he didn’t stay alert to new threats behind him. He zoned in on the man, with his only goal: keep him away from Clarke. 

She knew, deep down, that would always be Bellamy’s priority. He’d forever protect her over himself. That’s what scared her. The thought of losing him. The thought of him gladly trading his life for hers one day. She couldn’t lose him. She _ needed  _ him. Clarke looked over at him, and Bellamy surprised her by pulling her into a hug once again. He buried his face in her hair, his strong arms holding her tightly, pulling her body to his firmly, and Clarke knew. 

She knew he needed her, too.

_ Maybe even a little bit more _ .


End file.
